"Speak," she exclaimed.

"I wish to know your innermost thoughts." "I think you are adorable." "Oh! please, do for once be serious." "Seriously," he rejoined, "I am not certain that you are wrong, nor has it been proved to me that you are right; there remain some doubts." She cried out eagerly: "According to this, the sole realities of this world are things that can be seen, touched, felt--a retort and its contents.

Beyond this all is null and void, a lie, a cheat.

Ah! your wretched retorts and crucibles! If I followed out this thought, I should be ready to break every one of them." She cast about her as she spoke so ferocious and threatening a look, that M.Moriaz trembled for his laboratory, "I beg of you," he protested, "have mercy on my poor crucibles, my honest retorts, my innocent jars! They have nothing to do with this affair.

Is it their fault that the stories you narrate to me so disturb my usual train of thoughts that I find it wholly impossible to make adroit replies ?" "You do not, then, believe in the extraordinary ?" "The extraordinary! Every time I encounter it, I salute it," replied he, drawing off his cap and bowing low; "but at the same time I demand its papers." "Ah! there we are.